Wax Crayons and Safety Scissors
by el.abstracto
Summary: Drunk at her own birthday party (equipped with a badly-formed plot and Santana's bad advice) Quinn makes a move.


Wax Crayons and Safety Scissors

. . .

Disclaimer: I don't own glee.

Rating: This is on the T/M border so I went with the one I'm most used to. M.

Summary: A one night stand fic with a heartbeat.

A/N: mildly edited version of an old story of mine.

. . .

Chapter One and Only

. . .

Rachel's eyes wandered.

So this is what the summer brings— sweltering heat and teenage mania.

She'd only ever _heard_ about parties like these, from the bits and snippets of gossip any loser can overhear in any bathroom stall. The reality was underwhelming, if a little educational (in that shallow, _The Learning Channel_ way).

It wasn't a big surprise— she had always preferred the dream to the realities of things. When she fantasized about what it would be like to be the girl draped around the arm of that football-legend boy in the cool kid's party, his hand wasn't quite so clammy. And the conversation wasn't quite so non-existent.

Rachel wondered if she was perhaps immune to school spirit and teenage debaucheries. She glanced at Finn—he looked happy, smiling into nothing and nodding along to the music; off the beat.

Her thumb-nails were digging anxiously into each other. She didn't know how she should feel. This was the largest room she'd ever been in and it was _suffocating_—with young whooping bodies, laughter, and bad music.

It was like the house itself was cackling drunkenly. And all it did was make everything seem that much more desolate to Rachel.

There'd been a dull anxiety roiling in her stomach all night and she tried hopelessly to distract herself from it. She counted the ribs on all the girls and calculated the average number of abandoned blue solo cups on any given surface.

"I bet she tastes like wax crayons and safety scissors."

Her ears throbbed from how hot they were. It was Santana's smiling voice—the one that made her want to burrow into walls; disappear into the faded lilac wallpaper of Quinn Fabray's living room.

She let her bangs fall to cover her eyelashes—their shadows grew shorter the closer they came until three inflexible-spine cheerleaders stood perfectly poised in front of her.

"I _told_ Finn not to invite this freak to my birthday party but he _said _she'd be cool and now here she is trying to mate with my wallpaper. Oh Frodo—even my mother's poor taste won't fuck you."

There were synchronized, twittering giggles at that.

Brown eyes flickered up from the dingy grey of the carpet to stare at Finn, expectantly. The boy's face was reddening—he was staring at some plastic fichus in the opposite corner of the room.

Quinn's lips broke into a sharp grin, "See that? That's your date being too embarrassed to even _look _at you."

A small noise crawled pathetically from her throat and Finn shuffled his feet a little awkwardly upon hearing it.

"Hey," he said, voice cracking, "Let's uh…come on. This is a party right? Let's just have, you know, fun or whatever."

"Woo," Santana laughed, "That's considerably _gutsy _for you, Hudson. You must really want to get into those polka-dotted granny panties if you're showing even the _slightest_ smidgenof spine."

He leered at her with a petulant pout, browbeaten and uncomfortable.

Rachel thought she saw a flash of— _something_— in Quinn's eyes at what Santana had said but then hazel turned glibly to face Finn, "Listen—we're running low on beer and since you're, like, the only guy at this party who hasn't been drinking, I need you to take Puck; his drunken ass, his fake ID, and his _absurdly _weathered face to Raley's for a beer run. Take Mike along too so you two idiots don't do anything stupid."

"Uh—o—okay, yeah," he turned to kiss Rachel's cheek with a smile, "Be back in a sec, Rach."

The sharp cologne on his neck made her belly twist with worry—because even though the smell itself was terrible, she attributed it to her own relative safety in this unfamiliar space. And when he pulled away, so would that safety. She tugged at the sleeve of his Letterman jacket, "Can I come too?"

His mouth twisted into a crooked half-smile, "Nah—with the guys? Just stay here, I'll be back in like, five, I promise. Try to uh…make friends, you know? Like we talked about."

She nodded, eyes focused on the freckles that grazed his button-nose and how naïve and young he seemed suddenly and how he might always be that way—she took a deep breath, "Okay, have—be careful."

"Yeah sure."

Rachel counted three apprehensive breaths before the boy was out the door, slapping an arm around Puck and laughing loudly.

Her gaze re-focused from his grinning jaw to the three girls still hovering, arms crossed, in front of her. She sighed deeply and turned to walk away—she wanted nothing at all to do with Quinn Fabray's smile or her twinkling eyes.

. . .

She retreated to the deck where the stars turned everything a singular, silvery hue. And she had an excuse to pull her arms around herself. She was wearing a light sweater—black, at Finn's suggestion—but her skirt was yellow and that had made him frown and sigh at her: "do you have to be different _all _the time?"

She supposed that _yes, she did._ But only because she had to make it clear that she didn't belong here; in this tired town with its sagging, pale pink houses and the picket fences and the Quinn Fabrays.

"Oh look—it's _Polaris_."

She could feel her back tremble and hoped it wasn't visible.

"You know, Quinn, some of your insults are practically _geeky_. Also, if you weren't aware, Polaris is the brightest star in Ursa Minor so, thanks for the completely warranted comparison."

The soft little scoff marked Quinn as being a few steps closer.

"I was being ironic."

Rachel turned to her at that, momentarily surprised at their proximity, "Irony is for those of us who are too scared to just be honest."

"Or those of us who are funny."

She absolutely despised Quinn Fabray's eyebrow and its perfect, ever-present arch.

"Just leave me alone. Please."

She turned so her back was to Quinn again, and faced instead the girl's backyard. The moonlight had turned the grass nearly blue. Rachel thought it'd be a nice thing to share—with anyone else.

She wasn't very surprised when Quinn leant against the deck's railing, next to her—cocky grin in place. Rachel withdrew into herself a little.

"Why are you always looking at me like I'm Boo Radley's house? Are you—scared of me?"

The latter part was almost a whisper, almost self-conscious. And if it wasn't an utterly impossible thought to wrap her head around, Rachel might believe it.

"I don't know Quinn," she spoke past a wry, bitter smile, "What do _you _think?"

Quinn squinted at her, her mouth pulled into a pouting frown. And then it suddenly changed—those lips wrapped themselves around a smile. Pale hands reached for a blue cooler Rachel hadn't noticed, and pulled out two cans of Natty Ice.

"Drink with me," Quinn breathed it out excitedly, hand out to Rachel.

Rachel closed a hand against the dripping can, "What _is _it?"

Hazel stared blankly back at her, and shrugged, "Whatever Puckerman could afford a bunch of."

"Is it vegan?"

"For Christ's _sake, _Rachel."

Quinn flicked the tab open, the beer hissing and frothing just a little, before taking a swift gulp. A slight wince twisted her mouth up, but she was otherwise all right with the taste.

Rachel followed, a hint of hesitation gleaming beneath brown irises but then—Quinn was looking at her so expectantly. She flicked it open, and took a small sip.

"Oh-h-h, God that's awful."

"Mmm," Quinn was midway through a long pull at it, "Yeah, it's pretty bad."

Rachel took a second sip, if only to wet her lips and turned back to the horizon. Staring vaguely for an answer.

"Are you gonna like, stand here 'til dawn or whatever? Waiting for your man. You look like some loyal, tragic bride on a balcony waiting for sight of her husband's ship or something."

Rachel only rolled her eyes.

Quinn sneered at her, "What _is _it about Finn Hudson, anyway? Is it the Neanderthal brow? The melted Gerber-baby face? The smell of talcum powder mixed with 2.99 dollar body sprays marketed strictly to the douche-bag niche market? _Or_ the fact that every now and then those two brain cells he has rub together and spark a thought like: oh gee I bet I can save glee club with my frowny-lipped kisses."

The glow around the stars above her were clearly defined and Rachel directed her snort at them, "Do you have a secret hidden vault of schoolyard insults somewhere?"

Quinn coughed, a little beer dribbling down the side of her lip. She swiped it down with the back of her hand, chuckling freely now.

"Actually all of those are from Santana, though I'd love to take the credit. Woman's a freaking genius."

"Big surprise," Rachel sighed, thumb playing with her beer tab. She wondered idly how Quinn could drink it.

Quinn sucked the remaining liquid from the lip of the can—Rachel watched the way the muscles in her neck moved at that. The girl was chucking the empty can onto the already littered lawn, bending down for another and Rachel's own can was still heavy and full. She took a few sips to catch up, though it seemed dumb and futile anyway. At least it was something cold against the heat of summer.

Quinn was taking slower sips now—eyes peering strangely at her from behind her drink. She swallowed and licked her lips.

"Do you uh—do you ever wonder why I'm mean to you?"

Her bewildered frown cast a wistful look on Quinn's own face. It was as if she was taking the time to gauge the sincerity of Quinn's question.

Her voice, when she spoke, was very faint, "I couldn't _fathom_—no, Quinn, I try not to think about what would make a person…_hate _another that way. For seemingly no reason."

"So you think there's no reason."

Quinn stepped forward; a little sway in her step. Rachel had never been this close to that sneer.

"I didn't say that," Rachel bit her lip— her proximity to Quinn Fabray was at best disconcerting, "I said I couldn't _fathom_—"

So this evening had dissolved to some moody girl's mouth on her own.

It was a rough kiss. Rachel's breath had been robbed by it.

She could only stare into Quinn's eyes when the girl pulled away, her own lips still parted and tingling.

Amused hazel twinkled at her—Rachel had never seen those eyes gleam so prettily. She tried in vain to say something—her mouth trying to wrap around the manic ebb and flow of her emotions; she was petrified or outraged, livid or suddenly in love, frozen or on fire.

Quinn chuckled lowly.

"Go ahead, do it—I love your indignant fucking rambling. It's one of the reasons— you can figure them all out tonight."

Doe eyes flittered back and forth; between the quirk of Quinn's lips and the oblivious party on the other side of the sliding glass door.

She frowned, "Reasons?"

"The ones you can't _fathom,_" Quinn's voice was pleasantly rough, and pressed right up to Rachel's mouth.

Brown eyes were so wide Quinn could use them as mirrors. She brushed the bangs from her face to kiss her forehead and smiled at the sight of that furrow in the girl's brow deepening.

"Go up the stairs and turn into the first door on your left. It's my bedroom. Go in, sit at the foot of my bed— wait for me."

And Quinn walked away without a second glance.

. . .

The stairs up to Quinn's bedroom went around a wall littered with family photos. They weren't warm or welcoming—they were hollow-eyed, with dignified smirks and up-turned noses.

Her hand clung shakily to the banister, her mind reeling because this had _evil prank _written all over it.

Still her dead legs took her up to Quinn's bedroom.

It had a regular door, and a regular doorknob (actually sort of pristine and pretty; a girl's door)—but somehow it was daunting anyway.

. . .

She sat primly, as instructed, and tried to ease her breathing; calm her heart.

With slightly shaky hands she smoothed the pleats in her skirt; she wanted at least the illusion of composure.

"Hey," it was a gloomy, self-conscious half-slur.

Rachel jumped upon sight of Quinn leant darkly against her doorway; a bottle of wine in one hand and two crystal glasses on the other, Quinn's willowy fingers twined around the stems.

Quinn came to the middle of the room, shrugging a little awkwardly in front of Rachel, "I uh…got it from my parents' liquor cabinet—it's— I just thought you'd prefer chardonnay to…you know…piss-water beer."

Rachel nodded as she watched Quinn set the glasses diligently atop her dresser and pour.

She shivered like an urchin kitten in the rain. Something so_ pitiable_. She winced at herself—"It's cold in your room."

Quinn turned and handed her a half-full glass before reaching for her Cheerios jacket—slung over the back of a tall, black computer chair. She draped it over Rachel's shoulders with a blush.

"There."

Rachel took a sip—it was dry and sweet. She eyed Quinn darkly—"What is this?"

Quinn sighed patiently; one hand running across the back of her golden head, "Chardonnay?"

"You _know _what I mean, Quinn," Rachel was glad that her voice was steady, for once, around this girl.

"Maybe you never think about me," Quinn murmured softly, "But I—there _are _reasons—specific ones—why I go after you like I do."

Rachel blinked up at her, "What are they?"

"Finish your drink," Quinn shushed her.

Rachel tipped her glass—gulping at something that was supposed to be deftly tasted. It filled her mouth with a dry bitter-sweetness that she winced at.

"Okay," she breathed at Quinn, when she finished, "Tell me."

Hazel peered tensely back at her before becoming a blur.

Lips rushed to cover her own—Quinn was kissing her like the world was ending. She snuck her tongue in; wound her hand through Rachel's hair—blunt fingernails tickled the crown of Rachel's head. And then her mouth was on Rachel's ear, telling her why, "As far as this goes, there's no tomorrow. So you're either gonna give it to me now, or you're never gonna give it to me. And I guess I don't deserve it anyway. But—"

"What are you talking about?" She pushed the girl off by the shoulders—it'd been harder than she'd anticipated.

Quinn stared at her with those sad green eyes until Rachel's breath caught; and then she spoke—"I like you."

Rachel felt her heartbeat stutter, "W-_what_?"

Quinn raked a thumb across her bottom lip—just to disturb the frown of her mouth, "I—there are reasons, plural, like—your mouth is one, and your voice—a-and your _eyes_, and the lines of your, your jaw and, and—"

Rachel realized then that Quinn had likely started drinking _hours _before she'd ever offered her that beer.

"But mostly—I guess it's all just because I—_like_ you."

She felt something in her stomach break, "You…_like _me."

It was phrased almost like a question so Quinn nodded at it, after a silent beat.

"And you…you're mean to me at school _because_—you torture me because you _like _me."

Another nod, a tad more forlorn than the last.

Rachel's eyes raked quickly over the crystal glass she'd let slip from her hand during the kiss. It was shattered on Quinn's floor now; iridescent shards, like stars against the dark blue of Quinn's carpeted floor.

"So you were trying to get me drunk…and into your bedroom…because you like me—and this is—suddenly a time and a space that exists outside the laws of your own cowardice, which have kept you away from me for…however long this, this—crush?—this _thing, _has been going on for. Am I correct?"

"Yeah—yes," she stroked a hand across the back of her head again.

Rachel twisted her thumbs around each other, before catching one with the nail of the other and digging it in, "Are you taping this?"

"What?"

"Or, or do you have everyone looking through the slats in your closet? Or under the bed? And they're all just waiting for the second that my defenses are low enough to believe that that's _true _and then what? Is it worth it for a _laugh, _Quinn?"

Quinn's chest struggled with the suddenly forceful urge to cry.

"I'm not—" she muttered, "I'm not taping anything. I'm—there's no one in this room but you and me. I swear."

She felt her heartbeat flicker like a candle in the cold—she might be sick, "You expect me to believe—"

Quinn turned abruptly, bursting into her own closet—"No teenage monsters in the closet."

She swooped to peek beneath her bed.

"No teenage monsters under the bed. And I'm closing the blinds in the windows so no one can see us. And I'm locking the door so no one can walk in on us."

She flicked the switch in the doorknob and turned back with a shy, hesitant smile.

"See, Rachel? Just you and me and this one night—and it's all I want for my stupid birthday. I mean, you didn't get me a gift right? This—you could give me this, and it's all I—even really want."

Rachel winced as if something she swallowed had gotten caught in her throat, "I _did_—I got you a gift—I—I just thought—you would've thought it was stupid."

Quinn licked her lips slow—like waves lapping softly at a shore; low tide.

"You did?"

"It was a journal," she answered promptly, as if to get it out of the way quickly, "A—like a leather-bound, brown journal with frayed edges for—you know, to round out the look I suppose. And I—on the first page I wrote down a few lines of "J. Alfred Prufrock" because you're doing your AP Lit research paper on it, so you obviously must be at least partially fond of it to want to deal with it all summer and—well, I have great handwriting and yours is frankly—I'm phrasing this gently—_eccentric_— and I thought the first page should be kind of just pretty and nice, so even if you were having an awful day and were about to attack the pages with your awful handwriting and the dismal content of your entries, you could still—if you looked at the first page, you could see something—that I—that was— _pretty_."

Her eyes were glued to the gleaming crystal shards on Quinn's floor—but she thought dimly that she'd heard the girl sigh above her. It was entirely too soft to tell.

When Quinn's mouth pressed against hers again it was slow and thorough. Her tongue slid down the length of Rachel's, and her moan echoed in Rachel's mouth.

"You're unbearably kind, Rachel—you're—so—" and other indecipherable words mumbled out against Rachel's lips as Quinn's slid across them. And then it became clear that Quinn was beckoning for something Rachel couldn't quite make out.

She only shook her head against her, mouth sucking softly on Quinn's bottom lip. A _what do you want, you lunatic _dying in her throat in the form of a low groan.

Quinn picked her up by the waist and pushed her forward onto the bed, falling on top of her with the entirety of her weight and warmth.

_It's sick isn't it?—_Quinn mused abstractly—_how you can love someone so much and still want to drag their diminutive little body across the length of your bed, hands rougher than they ought to be._

She twisted her lips from Rachel's mouth and smirked at her gasp—that sneering grin that used to make Rachel tremble for _wholly _different reasons.

"God, Quinn I—" the shadows Quinn's ceiling fan made as it twirled above her all blurred together when the girl's mouth latched onto the side of her neck. Her words become a hoarse whisper, unclear, as Quinn's tongue invented new tortures to apply to Rachel's body.

Her belly twisted and she was suddenly very aware that she'd never been kissed in this position—lying down, beneath a hard body—and didn't know how to go about it decently. She pressed her legs together until her knees brushed against each other.

Quinn was playing with the lines of her ribs, over her sweater—tugging it a little higher every time her hands came up.

"I wish you were wearing a fucking owl sweater or something," she breathed it onto the shell of Rachel's ear.

Elegant, bewitching brows frowned, "The ones you _loathe_—why?"

"For the authenticity of the moment," she shrugged, eyes twinkling brightly.

"The moment?" Rachel mumbled; her arms crossed at Quinn's nape, helpless, "_What _moment?"

Quinn smirked, "The moment I got Rachel Berry naked in my room."

And then she tugged hard at the shoulder of Rachel's sweater; until the bra underneath it was revealed, along with the soft swell of her breasts.

The girl was wearing a soft pink, floral print bralette with a little pastel blue ribbon at its middle (Quinn knew instantaneously that she would always remember it, perfectly, exactly as it was right now).

Quinn's reverent fingers traced the bralette's pattern; she was glad for it, because the contrast against the drab black sweater was like an affirmation that she'd gotten here. To this place she always vaguely dreamt up when she fantasized; with Rachel underneath her and Quinn's hands tugging at fabric to get to that indistinct goal that swirls heady in the minds of all teenagers.

Rachel was out of breath—and Quinn's eyes were fixed with magnet-like devotion to the rise and fall of her breasts. The tip of one index finger swirled over what Rachel's bra revealed, tugged at the lacy edges until one breast was on the crux of slipping free.

Rachel felt as if her hands were bound by invisible ties (crossed at the uppermost knolls of Quinn's spine) and soon she wouldn't be able to push back against what Quinn was doing to her.

Did she even want to?

Words refused to take form in her mouth—she could barely capture air. And dreamy green eyes never left hers.

Quinn's hips were moving sinuously, slowly against her own. Her lips were curled around a smile and soon over the tops of Rachel's breasts, laying soft kisses there.

Rachel vaguely recalled being lectured to about seduction at one particularly tedious celibacy club meeting. Back then she'd rolled her eyes and chuckled disruptively, trying to imagine Finn Hudson in a position to seduce her. She wished now that she remembered anything at all that Miss Pillsbury had said. She felt wholly unprepared for this.

She broke out into goose-bumps when her nipple slid over the edge of her bra. Quinn bent down and blew softly against it, her lips set in an adorable pout as she did so, while Rachel trembled against the checkered white-and-red sheets.

"Quinn—this is—" she tried to assert herself, but Quinn sucked her into her mouth and she choked on her own protests.

"Please," it was said so sweetly, Rachel thought this might've been their honeymoon; sandcastles and palm trees set idyllically outside the window, "Just—one night—let me just have this."

Her eyes cracked open to the familiar ceiling fan, swatting limply at the air. _Right—this isn't paradise. _This was Quinn Fabray's bedroom. This was the first party of the summer. This was a half-drunken girl pushing her into strange checkered sheets. And tomorrow there'd be nothing but the bruises Quinn would leave on her tonight.

Was it worth it?—this one night Quinn was offering—was that worth it to give herself away? Her heart fluttered. Her palms slid down Quinn's back to grip her shoulder-blades.

Quinn's breath tickled her sternum, "I won't, y'know, hurt you or…like, damage your—y'know. I just want to tug at your insides a little—I bet you feel so good."

Callous hands were trying to pry her knees apart—Rachel's pulse flitted upwards, to the hundreds. Those fingers raking up her legs were poised for a lot more than a tickle at her thighs. And though this all felt good, it really frightened her too.

She knew (with a fierce certainty) that Quinn would stop if she'd tell her to—but she couldn't make the words come.

"I'll make you—if you let me—I promise I'll make you do it; make you come, you know? If you just let me—I promise. I've thought about it _so much_."

And then she cupped her—hand sliding up under soft, argyle pleats—through her panties; but it felt just like Quinn had licked a live wire: it shocked them both.

Quinn felt the girl's clitoris (stiff and little; peaking out from its hood) right at the center of her palm, where it left its burning indent.

Quinn looked up at her, to watch her—her head thrown back, and her blown irises; "God, Rachel—you want it?—you're gonna get it; I'm gonna make it so _good_."

Her fingers dipped to where they would've slipped in easily if it weren't for the girl's panties. She traced the curls of her lips—the tiny radius of her entrance; where her warmth seeped through to burn Quinn's fingertips.

Then her wrist was trapped in Rachel's palm, the girl's nails digging in; right into Quinn's hectic pulse point—"_No. Stop_."

Quinn squinted at her own hand (frozen where it'd been)—the pads of her fingers were wet.

"Rachel—I—I'm sorry I—no—this—I was never going to go too far—I just—I just wanted a moment with you—like—like, just a little rough-housing between girls."

Rachel was counting the ceiling fan's go-arounds, using the one with the crack on its tip as her basis point. She felt her pulse quell slowly but the world beyond the spinning circle was still hazy at best. She barely registered Quinn's slurring apologies.

"What?"

"I—Santana said a little rough-housing between girls didn't have to change anything. And that it didn't count and—and I just wanted one night with you where we could pretend—like—like the past two years never happened and we—could just hang out in my room and—y'know—whatever…"

Quinn looked at her again—just seconds ago she'd been lost to some wild abandon caused by the same hand she was letting go of with a sad sigh. And now— her hands were knotted together against her stomach in a way that reminded Quinn of afternoons spent with the girl shrinking further into McKinley High hallways as she leant into her like a shroud of lonely angst.

"I guess that sounds dumb sober…"

Rachel bit her lip, "Well I wouldn't take any advice on what does and doesn't constitute lesbianism from _Santana Lopez_. It's—a little dumb, yeah."

"Yeah," Quinn nodded, and scoffed sadly, "This was—god, I'm an idiot."

"So you _did_—plan this?" Rachel tugged her sweater back up, her bra into place, with dark eyes, "In—in your fantasy-version of this cleverly executed plot did I—how far did you get? Was there—_god, _Quinn—I can't—I can't believe you thought this would work—get me plastered and take advantage of me? That's—it's so much worse than the outright bitchy things you do to me _daily_."

"It wasn't!—" hazel turned to glossy amber, and brown eyes widened at the realization that _Quinn Fabray might cry_, "I—just wanted you to sit on my bed—and talk to me, about anything—and maybe I'd ask if you'd—kiss me, for—because it's my birthday. And—yeah, okay yes—if it led to more and I got this memory of a time when I got to—with you—then, that'd be—_perfect_. And I didn't—I wasn't going to get drunk but I was anxious and I'm a _Fabray _so I guess I should've seen that coming. I have like—it's my _trademark _to fuck things up. I—_wreck _everything. I wreck _everything._"

Rachel found herself tugging a pale palm, kissing along trembling knuckles—"Why won't you just—ask me? Ask me out."

Quinn huffed, eyes rolling, "Because that's not the way the story goes. Because the pretty outcast girl ending up with the oblivious popular jock is cute and sells tons of tickets in theatres every summer—but that pretty outcast girl never ends up with the secretly insecure cheerleader stuck in the closet. It just doesn't _happen_. Because if it _did _we'd go through hell in school, and my parents would kick me out, and a part of me would honestly believe I'd end up in some cell in hell next to Hitler and rapists because I crush on the wrong sex so yeah—this is…this is never going to _really _happen, Rachel. But—god—I can't even have one night."

"_We _can't," Rachel stressed, "We can't have one night because I'm not willing to give myself up for free—I need to be the center of your attention, someone you're proud of, and devoted to—_then _we'll see how far I let your hand go. And—and we can't have the rest of our _lives_ because you're not willing to stop clinging to everything that makes you this—this sad, broken girl—so—I guess I'm just going to go downstairs to wait for my oblivious popular jock so we can play out whatever story the secretly insecure cheerleader who's pulling off closet-control-freak a lot better than she's pulling off closet-lesbian _thinks _we should be playing out."

Quinn nearly snickered—if it weren't for the pout in Rachel's lip which reminded her of what was now still just minutes ago; "Finn's not coming back. I um—I may have asked Mike to…"

"Get rid of him," Rachel spoke flatly.

"And Puck," Quinn pouted, "Who's also just always in the way when I want to get you alone."

"I can't _believe_—god, Quinn."

"What?" Quinn threw her hands up, "It's not like I told Mike to chain them up in a _cave_ somewhere—I just told him to take them on some dull, circuitous, dude adventure—I made them live out the plot of _Superbad _okay? Ooh, big evil Quinn—that's like every dude's dream."

"How am I supposed to get home?" Rachel's arms were draped across her stomach, but she'd fallen back on Quinn's pillows. She looked almost comfortable there.

Quinn licked her lips in what Rachel now catalogued as her nervous side tongue-swipe—there were distinct categories; "Um—I mean, even in the fantasy version I was going to offer that I take the floor so…I'll do that and um…I mean if you're really uncomfortable after—y'know, all of everything—you can use the guest bedroom but Santana called it like two minutes into the party and unless you want to sleep between her and Brit—which like, would be totally, uncharacteristically kinky of you—then…I mean, I really don't mind taking the _floor_. I really don't."

Rachel snorted softly, in a way that enamored Quinn even further with her(she loved each, little idiosyncrasy), "Quinn—even if it weren't for the fact that the floor is littered with shattered glass I'd—I don't feel _unsafe _with you, you know?"

Quinn nodded, eyes wide, "Right—and I mean it _is _my birthday so…getting to sleep next to you is…yeah."

"_Quinn_," it was a reverent whisper, as if her name wasn't a name at all, but an impossible wish. She turned to glance at the girl's alarm clock—_12:15_, "First of all—it's no longer your birthday—but—even today, on the day _after _your birthday, on a totally—totally average, every-day _day_—I—I'd give this to you just because I know you wanted it—because, because one thing I could never do is get myself to stop caring about you."

She looked at Quinn—fair hair plastered to her brow from their heated almost-tryst; jerking her jeans down slightly uncomfortably, trying to push her smile to the side of her face and failing, biting it instead. This girl was sweet.

High School seemed so far away, but really they were in the middle of it—she could still hear it going on downstairs.

"Let me um," Quinn blinked and laughed, disbelievingly, "Let me get you some pajamas."

. . .

She awoke with a Cheerios jacket spread across her and an arm draped over her middle.

Quinn was a mass of hair glued to the crook of her neck.

She was glad the girl had shut the blinds last night; she could see three sharp lines of bright escape from the last three slats, which were not quite shut, and was thankful she was spared the full brunt of the sun. Quinn was grunting softly on her collarbones.

Rachel felt the sudden urge to cry quietly against sweet-smelling blonde hair. Last night and this morning were one long moment for them—and it was soon to be over. Secret loves would rearrange themselves back into the boxes they belonged in like fully bloomed corsages you keep and never give away.


End file.
